Death Waltz
by Collie Parkillo
Summary: "You just think you're going to give everybody hell, but you're getting hell shoved down your throat with every step you take." Semi-insane!Barkovitch/semi-insane!Olson.


**disclaimer: none of these characters are mine.**

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Hank Olson would never admit that he was deathly, deathly afraid.

The feeling in his feet was gone. There'd been so much pain, like there were nails in his soles, and now it was just gone. And somehow that was more terrifying than the pain. Shit, his feet had hurt, but now there just...wasn't anything there.

He wanted to let out a long sigh, but he immediately realized that there were people around. He'd look like he was cracking if he did that. And he was Henry Olson, and he wasn't going to crack. He was raring to rip, he was going to give 'em hell. That's right. Give 'em hell.

Well, it seemed that he'd entered hell, so maybe he could find some way to transfer it to the other boys. He smiled at that thought, not a happy smile but almost a cruel one. Yeah, as though giving hell would be that easy. He'd have to survive it first.

He surveyed the boys around him, and his eyes fell on the small, dark shape of Gary Barkovitch. Fucking Barkovitch. There were a lot of things Hank Olson wouldn't admit to being afraid of, and Gary Barkovitch was one of the most terrifying.

Because Barkovitch didn't have anybody to walk for. He was only there because he wanted to win, and he'd do whatever to get that.

Just like him.

Olson's breath hitched in his throat at that thought. No, he was not like Gary Barkovitch. Not at all. Barkovitch was a cheater, a killer, and an asshole. He wasn't any of those things. He was just a guy who liked to win.

But what's really the difference?

"What're you looking at?!" Barkovitch's irritated voice caused Olson to involuntarily step backwards, and Barkovitch smirked. "Scared, are we? Huh?"

"Why would I be fucking scared, killer?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe 'cause I'm going to out-walk you."

"Shut the fuck up." That'd make most people get away from him, but not Barkovitch. Barkovitch just didn't know when to stop. That was why he was so hated by everybody, really. Because he didn't know when shut up meant shut up. Olson just wanted to sit down with Barkovitch and talk to him, really, and tell him that he needed to fucking stop after some point.

"What? S'true."

"Hell, no. I could walk all the way to California."

"That's across fifty states, you motherfucker. There's no way you could do that."

"Watch me."

Barkovitch threw back his head and laughed. It was an empty, somewhat defeated sound, but it had just enough of an edge to send chills down Olson's spine. "You really don't have a clue, do you?"

"What do you know about anything?"

"I could ask the same thing of you, dumbo. You think you're so fucking special, just 'cause of the goddamn Major. But news flash, shithead, you're no better than anybody else. You just think you're going to give everybody hell, but you're getting hell shoved down your throat with every step you take."

Olson's breath hitched up in his throat again. "Speechless, huh? Afraid that I'm right? Guess what, when you're dead, I'll do you some mercy and I won't even dance on your grave by myself. I'll waltz with your girlfriend on it."

Olson gritted his teeth. "You want to fucking dance, Barkovitch? I'll dance."

Barkovitch laughed again, a contorted grin on his dark features. "Ah, that's the spirit. Stop making yourself out to be some sorta angel. You're just as bad as I am. C'mon, Olson, dance on their graves with me. We can do fucking ballroom routine all over the others' stupid corpses."

Olson laughed along with him, partly just to be less terrified. Maybe if he went along with Barkovitch's insane ramblings, it'd make him less terrifying. "Sure, Gary. Sounds great. But I thought that was what you were going to do with my girlfriend."

"Eh, plans change." He giggled, and Olson remembered the stupid-ass Plan Barkovitch had kept mentioning.

"I don't even have a girlfriend."

"Not surprising."

"Fuck you." It suddenly hit Olson that this was how he'd talked with his friends back home. No, shit, he wasn't going to become Barkovitch's friend. He didn't even want to be seen with Barkovitch. Barkovitch was a crazy dick, and he sure as hell wasn't becoming his friend.

"Sure, I bet you'd want to."

Oldest joke in the book, thought Olson, but it still made him turn red. "Why the hell would I want to do that? Bet you'd be terrible in bed."

"Bet I'm not."

"How would you know anyways? You ever done anything like that?"

Barkovitch glared at him, but it didn't look like a real glare. But then again, it was hard to tell with Barkovitch. "Nah. Girls are fucking terrible. I hate girls."

Olson laughed. "What're you implying about yourself?"

"Fuck off, I'm not queer."

"Right."

Barkovitch shoved him and surprisingly, no one noticed enough to give him a warning. "If anybody's queer, it's that goddamn McVries."

"Agreed."

He realized that he hadn't been thinking about his feet anymore throughout all of this. His damn feet were still numb. "Hey, Barkovitch? D'your feet hurt?"

"Hell, no. I feel fine."

You don't look fine. "Yeah, sure, whatever you say."

"Do yours?"

"Nope, not all."

"Good, we can still dance together. Dancing doesn't hurt your feet, not really. Walking is fucking terrible though. If I could give up one thing for the rest of my life, it'd be walking. Why don't we all just fly?" Barkovitch sounded like a deranged five-year-old dreaming of special powers, and Olson had to admit that he felt the same way.

"Yeah, like we're all just gonna grow wings and fly away. That'll happen."

"A guy can dream, can't he? I want a future where walking and feet and roads and soldiers don't exist. Hell, the entire human race can just die off, it'll just be me and you with beating wings and a bunch of fucking graves."

The fact that Barkovitch included him in his sick fantasy made Olson feel strangely warm. Barkovitch was a sick, terrible person, but he seemed to care.

"You're an asshole, but you've got an interesting mind."

"Asshole, huh. Like you aren't. You're just like me, Hank Olson. You and I, we're one of the same. Only one of us knows that they're a fucking asshole. Olson, you and me, we could win together. Out-walk everybody else and then try and fight the soldiers down. Heh." Barkovitch grinned and looked over at the soldiers. "We could get 'em to declare two winners."

"Sure, deal." Olson figured that Barkovitch would forget about it after awhile.

"Hey, Olson, if I go down before you, do me a favor, alright?"

"What is it?"

Barkovitch leaned in close, so close that Olson could feel his breath on his ear. "Daaance on my grave, Olson. No tears, no mourning, no fucking funeral. Just be happy that it wasn't you who was dead. Just daaaaaaance." His teeth were almost nicking Olson's skin, and Olson had to wonder if he'd been lying when he'd said he wasn't queer.

"I will, Gary."

"Do you promise?" Barkovitch's arms slid around his neck, like a combination of an embrace and an attempt as asphyxiation.

"I promise."

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**i don't know where this even came from but somehow i'm pleased with it.**


End file.
